


you are my candy boy.

by caticoo



Series: healing takes time. [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Domestic Fluff, FLUFF LIKE STRAIGHT UP FLUFF, Feeding, Fluff, M/M, Post-Game(s), i guess, lots of description, theres not a lot of tags with this one, uMMMM ITS NOT KINKY I SWEAR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 01:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12643704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caticoo/pseuds/caticoo
Summary: sugar ; honey honey.





	you are my candy boy.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juicymats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juicymats/gifts).



> hi. my name is cati! i used to rp.  
> i roleplayed on tumblr. a lot of the language tumblr rp uses isn't really gramatically correct and is more of a focus on imagery than anything. this one is going to be short. also, blease do not kick me for using this language... let me live. set in the au of my halloween saiouma fic.
> 
> thank you to claus for suggesting the scenario. this one is for u.

it was disorganized and messy.

these mountains of fabrics, unholy things (they were stained with the memories of previous sweat and passion — no amount of trips to a simple washer would be able to rid it of this), yet belonging to the seraphs themselves. only because ouma had found comfortableness with them (though he implored that it felt _much_ better to be with saihara, compared to a sinful cloth or two). they draped the two like angel's kisses, ouma's tangled right beside the detective, a plant whose tendrils wished to wrap dearly around it's beholders — saihara's chest. he was his, and saihara had never doubted one moment of it, especially in each crispy morning the two shared after lies were burned between them to reveal a charming truth. the fire that was their love had been kindling bright for the past several months. saihara had refused to see it die, and he was sure ouma had felt the same — especially with their absence of one another. the detective remembered what the feeling was like, to lose, to be at defeat to the concept of losing something — anything small from a simple bet to a precious thing he would label a soul. he could not afford to lose anything anymore. especially if it had something of value to him, especially if it had something of value to ouma, too.

saiahra urged ouma beside him with a nudge (a simple gesture, for saihara was sure that ouma would have received the message well), attempting poorly to pry him of a sleep-deprived state. a bit of guilt bit into his veins for trying to disturb some sleep ouma was deseperately chasing for (or so it seemed,) as ouma was still in recovery — his body was still weakened. a porcelain glass doll, carefully, carefully pulled back together, being bonded by the glue that saihara personally believed ouma's medication and alert button was taking care of. sometimes ouma collapsed, and it sent saihara into a frenzy every single time — panic into his being, into his brain, into his heart ( _i can't let you die again. i can't._ ) — ouma always played his health of as a joke. a sickeningly cruel one, if it may, but saihara understood that ouma was simply always trying to put a smile onto his face — to ease his anxieties, his worries over _him_. (that reminded saihara of how he had once looked over a diary left behind by the ouma that once was. ouma had specifically given him light permission ['nishishi, i bet old me was a deadbeat. if you read his stuff, you're probably gonna like me even more!'] to search his old belongings. the diary read of self-hatred, of self-consciousness, of the desire to be remembered — the desire to want people to pay attention to him, yet not directly ask for it. how _shy_ he was, how much of a _coward_ he had been, how _excited_ he was for the death that would come to him, in whatever form, that danganronpa would bring. [ouma was correct when he had said saihara would only like the him now more after analyzing his past self's comments, but likely not for the reason ouma had implied].)

the supreme leader (or, truly, _past_ supreme leader) made a sound originating from his throat as a gesture of acknowledgement — the wavelengths muffled into saihara's arm, unsleeved compared to his usual close-fitted attire. an exhale from the detective, and another urge to lift his head up from his tired position of resting upon his forearm. with a grand lift, snapping his neck up to meet the eyes of his beloved (eyebrows quilted to reflect annoyance), the plum-headed spouted a trying, harsh "what?" (though he cannot hide his tiredness). such an action only allowed saihara to smile — he's gotten his attention. it is what he wants. ouma's suddenly caught in that mesmerizing gaze of saihara's — saihara is caught in ouma's. the two share different viewpoints of what they found beautiful (after all, the word _beautiful_ was such a fickle word. just as fickle as feelings like happiness and sadness). saihara saw quiet nights in his own isolation and the comfort of a fire, beautiful — ouma found the bustle of a carnival, the laugh of children (and even their whining, too), the bright, bold lights of a carousel beautiful. it was roses, dashed in water in the light of the moon to one — it was a sunset 'pon a mountaintop, surrounded by the presence of the earth to the other. beauty was in the eye of the beholder. but their eyes were beauty themselves, too.

neither think about this, however, because it is already knowledge their mind has taught them without fail. they found each other beautiful, and their minds processed and registered this splendidly, as if a reflex — saihara wallowed in it a bit longer than ouma did, almost always. it was never beheld for more than a couple of sweet, savory seconds — regardless, it was a wonderfully reassuring time nonetheless.

without words, without explanation, and certainly without the need to remind ouma of his love (ouma could already infer from saihara's stare. saihara had always softened, even by a slight, when he glanced his way, in comparison to everyone else. he was simply different, and the look in his eyne did not lie so easily,) saihara raised the arm that ouma hadn't been finding a homely place in. entwined in his fingers was the hearty, healthy stems of a ripened strawberry — provided by team danganronpa, a breakfast for two set upon the coffee table that stood in its place in front of the two. ouma had dragged their sheets with him, and saihara had dragged ouma from the bed (you could trust that saihara did not feel like doing this initially, but the persistent knock on his door had encouraged the two [plus their blankets] from their home on the bed, and now making a makeshift shelter on the couch). a meal was not always presented to the cast — sometimes they had to traverse for themselves and reach the cafeteria. other times the team held kindness for them, and delivered. this must have been one of those kinder days. ouma eyed the ripened fruit disinterestedly, his gaze falling flat of love when it reached the strawberry.

saihara urged once more, a gentle please — ouma needed to eat, and he was aware of this. his frail body, still in healing, still recovering, still so weak and still so crumbling that saihara wouldn't settle with being away from him for too long, needed the nutrients, but it was groggy mornings like these that caused the detective to worry for how well ouma ate. the supreme leader let out a sigh — even he knew this of himself. there was no use fighting for the care that saihara so graciously bestowed onto him — ouma swore whenever he looked up at saihara's visage, a halo was always present at the crown of his head. lazily, the plum-headed leaned forward to bite the strawberry — juices gushing, and the soft sounds of ouma's crunch filling the mostly silent room, save for the tattooing of each of their hearts. ouma finished quickly, mumbling, "how sour. i want something sweeter, saihara-chan."

"these strawberries are sweet, though...?" is the counter that saihara provides, looking at the bowl set onto the coffee table — undoubtedly they were freshly picked. there was no possible — ah. his train of thought crashed into a wall, as ouma settled his mind with the soft feel of lips against lips — a sensational touch. a warming touch. a homely touch. saihara remained stunned only for a split second, but a kiss was not something he would counter when it came to ouma — it was perhaps the sweetest thing in the entire platter of a breakfast's meal, even past the cup of ungodly sugary syrup provided for the waffles on a plate. it was melting, their locked passion — with the aid of the morning sun herself, basking upon both of their skins, their lips' heat perished as soon as ouma gently pulled away. the supreme leader snickered.

"that's more like it."


End file.
